


The Whiskey Glass Effect

by krysiebee



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bucky-centric, M/M, One Shot, POV Second Person, Pre-Serum, drunkenness and hallucinations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:39:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1569593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krysiebee/pseuds/krysiebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tomorrow you’ll blame the alcohol, which probably isn’t altogether wrong; tomorrow you’ll cringe all day and say it’s your bruises when it’s actually because you remember everything; tomorrow, and for the rest of your life, you’ll wonder if you actually were talking to Steve after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Whiskey Glass Effect

**Author's Note:**

> So, first fic I'm posting on this site, here's what you need to know:
> 
> 1\. This is written in second person POV, in case you didn't bother reading the tags. If that isn't your cup of tea, don't say I didn't warn you.
> 
> 2\. Bucky is pretty fucking drunk in this fic. It's kind of depressing.
> 
> 3\. The ambiguous nature of the beginning and the end (and everything in between) is intentional. Closure is for the weak.
> 
> 4\. You may very well leave this fic as you arrived, confused --if slightly more sick of the word 'you' than before.
> 
> Finally,  
> 5\. You have R. Mckinley's brilliant prose to blame for the inspiration of this fic.
> 
> Happy Reading.

 

  _1._ _Spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. Wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it. – R. Mckinley, ‘8 ways to say I love you’_

**_…_ **

 

You’re drunk. No you’re not.

 

You've been drinking but you’re not drunk.

 

You’re angry though. Fuming. Practically shaking with it and it takes all of your strength not to scream in frustration. Instead, you stare forward numbly. There is a dirty mirror behind the bar and in it you note the heaviness in your eyes, the weight, the sorrow. You look old. It’s uncomfortable and so you look away, down to the muted, glossy finish of the bar counter. Your hand is curled into a fist around a piece of paper. You look at it and without hesitating you rip it up.

 

The bartender spares you a cursory look; _“I don’t always need your help Bucky”_ ; he’s wiping a glass; _“What your problem anyway?”_

 

Steve doesn't know. He doesn't know and so he left. He left you here. He’s angry at you. You’re angry at Steve. You’re angry at you. You’re angry at the world. It’s not fair.

 

The bartender pours some whiskey in the glass and you swallow as you stare at it.

 

You’re not drunk. But, you can get drunk.

**…**

 

You can think clearly right? Good.

 

You nod in agreement with your thoughts and then ensue to fall off your stool gracelessly, like a marionette without strings. The floor’s much further than you thought it was.

 

It’s also very solid, unforgiving… and decidedly painful, but you won’t notice that until tomorrow. The glass you were nursing _was_ full of whiskey a moment ago –and many moments before that – but is blessedly empty when it makes contact with the floor and shatters. Your hand is covered in cuts now. Does it hurt? Should it? Something hurts, but you don’t think it’s your hand.

 

The floor grounds you, literally and figuratively. And in the one precious minute that your brain stops spinning, you notice a few things. For instance, you notice that the bar is empty, and the Bartender is a bulky fellow about 6’2 tall. You notice he has a hard gaze that reminds you a bit too much of your deadbeat father’s. You notice that your hand --the one that wasn't too preoccupied with holding your glass to break your fall –is still curled into a fist; you wonder how long it’s been that way.

 

You notice that you’re angry -- or are you sad? The minute is over before you can think about it further.

 

You look back at the bartender, who has taken off his apron and is walking around the bar towards where you have fallen. You think of your father. You grin up at him. The same grin you’d give your Sunday school teacher before he beat you. Your hand is still in a fist, and the bartender cracks his knuckles.

 

There’s glass everywhere.

 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, as the bartender tells you to get out, Steve looks at you with disappointment.

 

You stay where you are --because Steve’s here now, and because you were never good at listening to people anyway.

 

Steve in your head tells you that this might not be a good idea.

 

“Awful hypocritical comin’ from you, don’t you think, Stevie?” you say as you stand up. You shake yourself off a bit. Your reflection looks like shit. The bartender looks at you like you’re insane.

 

Steve looks thoroughly unimpressed. “You’re gonna get the ever loving daylight beat outa ya, you know that, pal?”

 

You reel back your fist for a punch and your smile drops. “That’s the idea, pal.” Your voice is flat.

**…**

 

Five minutes later you’re sporting a split lip, a fresh black eye, and one of your ribs may or may not be cracked but, surprisingly, you've made it out of the bar alive without any life threatening injuries. You start on the way home. It’s a chilly night but you either don’t notice or don’t care. It doesn't matter. Either way, it’s a long walk. You stop pretending to feel fine after about half a block.

 

You’re tipsy, but somehow the world seems so much clearer, brighter when your senses are numbed. The sky is a beautiful dark blue, and you try to touch it. You feel --

 

You feel—

 

You feel ill.

 

Doubling over, you proceed to violently throw up for about 5 minutes. When you’re done you manage another half a block before you simply give up and sit on the curb.

 

You’re thinking maybe you should just spend the night here on the streets, like you used to do when your dad came home drunk, when a shadow casts over you and you look up. For the first time you find yourself looking up at Steve Rogers, who is gazing down at you with his eyebrows wrinkled in concern. You squint up at him dazed for a minute, then you smirk.

 

“What are ya doin’ here Stevie? Thought you weren't talkin’ to me,” you slur, as you attempt –and fail—to get up. The hangover seems to be coming early –you feel lightheaded, dizzy.

 

“I think you’re confusing me with you,”  he coolly replies. You grimace at that. You don’t want to be reminded of how you've been acting, that’s why you got drunk.

 

Steve looks you over, frowning. He frowns exactly like the _real_ Steve would, and as you’re silently congratulating yourself on your impeccable memory of all things Steve Rogers, he says; “Christ, he really did a number on you didn't he?”

 

You grin so widely in response it’s painful, but it distracts you enough to successfully pretend not to notice the look in Steve’s eyes. Your vision is becoming blurry. Are there two Steves? Three? Wait, are you crying? You never cry in front of Steve but this Steve isn’t real anyway. You wonder momentarily if you can touch a hallucination.

 

“’S nothing, just a scratch.  I've had worse.”  You’re not lying –you have been in worse fights –but somehow the pain of this one hurts more. You blame the cold.  Steve crouches down to inspect your wounds properly and you try not to breathe. And this just _can’t_ be real because you can feel the delicate pads of his fingers, can feel the warmth of his breath, the texture of his skin, his smell. It envelopes you, almost smothers you and you struggle not to push him back just so you can breathe.

 

It’s all too real. You almost fall for it. But Steve’s not really here, you remind yourself: a mantra through your head. Steve’s mad at you. He’s mad and it’s your entire fault. You chased him away, told him to mind his own business when all he wanted to know was what was bothering you. But you couldn't tell him, you could never.

 

That was a promise you made to yourself a long time ago.  Even if everything else fell apart in your life, you would never let your friendship with Steve end. So when you realized how you feel about him-- you knew instantly you wouldn't let something as stupid as _that_ be the thing to end it. Turns out, it might just end your friendship anyway, whether Steve knows or not.

 

Steve murmurs something incoherent as he looks you over but you catch the words ‘hopeless’ and ‘Bucky’ anyways. There is silence for a moment after that, a few blessed minutes that the two of you sit together with nothing but the sounds of wind and breathing in the air and your hand in Steve’s and you think maybe, _maybe_.

 

But then Steve exhales heavily and the mood plummets. “You've been avoiding me, Bucky.”

 

Normally, you’d panic and change the subject, but the alcohol has made you looser, more careless. You’re sober enough to feel the rapid beating of your own heart, but too drunk to play pretend. It’s been that sort of night. Casually: “What gave it away?”

 

He shrugs equally as casual, perhaps to keep you calm, most likely to keep himself calm. Neither of you are especially good at these types of conversations. “You’re my best friend, Buck. How could I not notice? I just wanna know, why. Why’re you doing this to yourself?” _To us,_ it goes unsaid but you hear it.

 

Tomorrow you’ll blame the alcohol, which probably isn’t altogether wrong; tomorrow you’ll cringe all day and say it’s your bruises when it’s actually because you remember everything; tomorrow, and for the rest of your life, you’ll wonder if you actually were talking to Steve after all.

 

Today you whisper “’m sorry.” And then licking your chapped lips, without explanation or thought, with slightly slurred speech and alcohol courage, you add: “’s just that I’m in love with you, Stevie. Wish I could tell you, the real you I mean. Guess I’m just afraid.”

 

The betrayal of your feelings is quiet and liberating beyond belief. Nothing as dynamic as your usual gestures of affection, but more truthful than all of them.

 

You wait.

 

There is the sound of trees rustling, and the bark of a distant dog. Very few cars and very many crickets. Wind. These are the sounds that make up silence.

 

You can feel Steve’s eyes burning into the side of your head, clouding your already addled mind. They burn through you like a shot of whiskey, affect you the same way. You think maybe you were drunk all along, have always been from the moment you met Steve. Curiosity gets the best of you and you meet his gaze, you see a flicker of something.

 

And then it’s gone.

 

And then he takes a deep breath and stands up. You think for a moment that he’ll leave you there but then he turns to you with a hand outstretched. You take it. You stand, facing each other, unsure in the way that school children are with their first love, only you’re drunk and Steve isn’t real and neither of you are children.

 

You’re about to say something, you can’t remember what even when you try to later, because in that moment as the words leave your mouth, they are stolen by Steve. Steve kisses you with certainty that surprises you, but with the honestly and affection that you've always felt in his presence. There is no tongue or teeth, simply the smooth texture of Steve’s lips caressing your own which relieves you because you know you threw up earlier and you have the decency to feel embarrassed about it. Steve doesn't seem to mind though.

 

You think that it’s a pity that this is simply the result of an alcohol induced dream.

 

You say as much to him when he pulls away and Steve smiles, a touch sadly in response.

 

 “Let’s get you home Buck.”

**…**

 

When you awaken the next day on your own bed with yesterday’s clothes on and a hangover, you still for a minute and allow shame to wash over you until you can feel your ears burning crimson. You spend the rest of the week anxiously waiting for Steve to say something –or maybe call the Feds --, but Steve doesn’t say a word. Only looks at you oddly whenever you cringe in remembrance of something he doesn't seem to know. When you ask Steve how you got home that night, he says you walked and fell asleep as soon as you hit the bed. You ponder whether it really all was a dream -- well, the walk home anyways.

 

You aren't sure if it counts as regret to regret something that may or may not have happened. And you’re even less sure of whether you regret that it did happen or that it did not.

 

In your confusion you forget that Steve doesn't have a key to your apartment, and so shouldn't have been there when you woke up.

 

Did you leave the door open last night?

 


End file.
